Robinson's insider novel (she is an executive at Columbia Pictures) proves what every sensible person who doesn't live in New York or Los Angeles already knows intuitively--the movie business isn't what it's cracked up to be, and neither is reading about it. The narrator/heroine, called ``Pet'' by her colleagues, rises from secretary to executive vice-president of a large film company, and with each promotion it is increasingly vague what she really does except criticize her secretaries. As the story gets farther away from the people who actually make films, it becomes less and less interesting. Neither the narrator nor anyone else is a dynamic character, and corporate power struggles have been described better by others. Even when several characters use drugs, no side effects or other inconveniences result. For all the heroine's musing, she never does understand that it is indeed her obsession with her success that prompts her perfect husband to seek other arrangements. If Hollywood were truly as flat and tedious as this book suggests, everyone would pack up and sell insurance. (Apr.)